


on the hook

by kirargent



Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Artist America, F/F, Model Kate, the 50's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2996204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America Chavez: artist. pin-up painter. presumed male, presumed white. actually latina, actually female, actually gay as hell and not ashamed of any of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the hook

**Author's Note:**

> The 50's are?? A mystery to me? 2014 aka the year I learned to put "no historical aus!" on all gift exchange sign up sheets.
> 
> ANYWAY! I did my best! I hope you like it well enough?
> 
> According to [this handy list](http://www.citrus.k12.fl.us/staffdev/social%20studies/pdf/slang%20of%20the%201950s.pdf), "on the hook" means "in love."
> 
> There is an accompanying picspam for this fic [here](http://kirargent.tumblr.com/post/106829476931/youngavengersficexchange-on-the)!

America Chavez:

artist.

pin-up painter for Bishop Publishing.

presumed male, presumed white.

actually female, actually latina, actually gay as hell and not ashamed of any of it.

Actually the finest woman Kate Bishop has ever seen, deserving of the utmost admiration. Her lips are full, her eyes are dark; her hair is an unruly halo around her face.

"Kate!" America snaps. Kate jumps.

"Oh," she says, because she'd maybe/sorta been too busy staring at America to remember that they're in the middle of working. She makes a face. "I’m bored," she complains. "Let’s take a break."

America grumbles, as she always does, but nevertheless rinses out her brush, sets it down, and heads for the back door (which she also always does). America's compliance with her whims never fails to bring a smile to Kate's lips. She climbs down from her stool and shakes out her stiff limbs, sliding on her silky purple robe before following America out to the back stoop. America already has a cigarette lit by the time Kate leans back against wall beside her, arms crossed to shield herself from the New York winter cold. Snow covers the streets, the sidewalks; a mound of it hangs dangerously low over the edge of the roof above them.

"Give me a drag?" Kate asks, reaching for the cigarette.

America rolls her eyes and moves it out of Kate's reach. "I'm not gonna be responsible for getting you hooked, princess."

Though she doesn't really mind, Kate huffs. Can't start letting America get away with denying her things without complaint. She pouts out her lips, leans her shoulder into America.

"Then how about a kiss?"

Obligingly, America drops a light peck to Kate's cheek.

Kate glares at her. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Don't wanna get paint all over your robe, sweetheart." She wiggles her fingers, decorated in messy smears of color: largely reds and greens and whites for this painting, as Kate's underwear set is red and she's been posing draped in fake greenery. Holiday pin-ups sell big. The greens are damn itchy, though.

"I don't care about the paint," Kate wheedles. She slides her arms low around America's waist, gripping her dress. "Kiss me."

As usual, America manages to make it seem as if this is the biggest inconvenience Kate possibly could've caused her—she stomps out her cigarette, sighs, glances around—but when she pulls Kate in by the waist and the back of the neck, her mouth is eager. The sharp chill of the air around them just makes America's lips feel warmer, makes Kate pull her in closer. Frankly, she's freezing out here with just a flimsy robe covering her lacy lingerie, but she'll be damned if she lets America know it. She leans down to kiss America harder, her hands curling into the fabric of America's dress.

"We should really," America murmurs between kisses, "finish working—first."

"Don't want to," Kate mumbles, placing a kiss at the corner of America's mouth.

"We have to," America prods.

"Well, that's stupid," Kate decides.

America gives her a smile. "We still have to do it."

Kate makes a noise of frustration. "I hate working."

"Hey," America says, cocking an eyebrow, "all _you_ have to do is sit and look pretty. I have to actually, you know, paint."

"You don't think holding ridiculous provocative poses for hours is hard?"

"Not harder than painting, no."

Kate tosses her hair over her shoulder, turning to grip the door handle. "I'd like to see you try it sometime," she snaps.

The smile America gives her is too sweet to be sincere. "Oh, but you're so good at it. I'm sure I could never look half as good as you."

Rolling her eyes as she heads back inside, Kate doesn't bother dignifying that with an answer.

Kate arranges herself once more on her stool, shrugging out of her robe, adjusting her lingerie, and half covering up with the itchy greenery. She plasters on a ridiculous, pouty-lipped, startled expression and faces America. America is smirking.

Kate drops her forced expression just long enough to tell her to shut up, then resumes posing. America chuckles.

"I hate you," Kate tells her.

"Love you too, princess," America says easily, swiping her brush through her green paint.

"You're buying me three milkshakes later," Kate informs her.

"Stop moving," America commands.

Kate does as she's told.

After groaning and rolling her eyes, of course.


End file.
